


And Miles We've Gone

by rinwins



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Forehead Kisses, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Sleepy Cuddles, it's so fluffy i'm going to die, pure fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 09:24:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19827211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rinwins/pseuds/rinwins
Summary: After the end of the end of the world, but before the first day of the rest of their lives, Crowley and Aziraphale get some sleep.





	And Miles We've Gone

He does go to Crowley's flat after all. For one thing, if the bookshop really has burned, he's not sure he can face it yet; for another, if anyone else is going to come for them tonight, he doesn't want to be alone.

For a third, halfway through the bus ride Crowley falls asleep with his head on Aziraphale's shoulder.

It's the middle of the night when the bus pulls to a stop in London. An interior light flickers on near the door. "Last stop, gentlemen," the driver calls.

"Hhhwuh," says Crowley.

Aziraphale gently maneuvers his arm around Crowley's waist. "Up you get," he murmurs, lifting them both carefully out of the seat. "We're home."

He's sure to thank the driver politely. The driver responds with a knowing smile, at which Aziraphale is somewhat surprised to find himself blushing. 

"'m awake," Crowley says, as the bus trundles away.

Aziraphale arranges Crowley's other arm over his shoulders. "Of course you are, my dear."

At this hour there’s no one else on the street. They're only a block or so away from the flat, and with an arm still around his waist Crowley can walk- well, as steadily as he ever does. All Aziraphale has to do is steer. 

The flat’s up a very aesthetic set of narrow post-industrial stairs, two flights, no other units. Crowley hasn’t bothered with a lock. Or a knob, in fact. As they approach he gestures extremely vaguely at the door- a solid stone slab- and it swings silently open.

The first thing Aziraphale sees is that Crowley still has that ridiculous statue in the entrance. And he’d almost managed to forget it, too.

“ _Really,_ ” he sighs. Crowley gives a hiss of laughter. Then he yawns widely- probably more widely than a human face ought to- and unslings his arm. The stone door swings silently shut.

“Thanks, angel,” he says, quite clearly, considering. “I can find my way from here.”

He wanders off, shedding his jacket in the vestibule. Aziraphale, feeling suddenly at a loss, trails after him. In the greenhouse room he shrugs out of his vest and drops it on the floor, tosses his scarf, still knotted, after it; as he passes the desk he leaves his shirt- oh dear. It’s only a body, isn’t it, Aziraphale tells himself, and a human body at that. No cause for alarm. 

Instead of being alarmed he goes back and quite calmly picks up the discarded clothes. He comes back around to the bedroom just in time to see Crowley yawn again and fall bonelessly onto the bed.

With what looks like a practiced technique, Crowley uses the edge of the footboard to hook first one shoe, then the other, off of his feet. Then he slithers out of his dark jeans- somehow- leaving him in socks and a pair of black shorts.

“Ssssssleep,” Crowley sighs, wriggling his shoulders down into the mattress. 

And, to all appearances, he falls asleep immediately.

The bedclothes aren’t made, and possibly never have been. Aziraphale sorts out one of the sheets and pulls it up over him. Even in human form, his skin is cool. “Good night, Crowley,” he says softly. And on an impulse- it’s been such a long day, after everything they’ve been through, and he’s tired too- he smooths the hair away from his forehead, and brushes the gentlest kiss there.

Suddenly he yawns as well. He _is_ tired. He doesn’t sleep nearly as often as Crowley does, but right now it sounds very tempting. 

First, though, out of habit, he folds up Crowley’s shirt and jeans and hangs his jacket and vest in the wardrobe. Then his own vest and coat- and they don’t look as strange as he half-expected, hanging next to all Crowley’s black- and his bow tie securely tucked in the breast pocket. Then- after a moment’s hesitation- he doesn’t dare miracle himself a nightshirt- Aziraphale removes his trousers and shirt and folds those carefully too.

There’s no point in feeling self-conscious, he tells himself, not after everything. It’s only a body. Bodies and sleep- necessary for humans, luxuries for the two of them. And, in a way, in addition to the whole world, hadn’t he and Crowley fought to have them? Starting now, he isn’t going to take any of it- sleep, bodies, the world, Crowley- for granted.

He’s just turning around to go and find the sofa when he realizes Crowley still has his sunglasses on. And he probably shouldn’t be surprised, when he gently removes them to put them away, to find Crowley’s eyes open and looking directly into his. And yet.

“I,” he says, “that is, oh dear-”

“Angel,” says Crowley, “are you getting in bed or not?”

Oh. Well.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, “I suppose I am.”

-

On the morning of the first day of the rest of their lives, Aziraphale does something unusual- he wakes up. Specifically, he wakes up in Crowley’s flat, with both of Crowley’s legs wrapped firmly around one of his own, one of Crowley’s arms draped over his stomach, and the other over his head in a way that doesn’t seem like it could possibly be comfortable.

He starts to sit up.

“Nooo,” Crowley mutters, clinging on. He’s noticeably warmer where they touch. Aziraphale tries as gently as possible to detach him, without much success- and, to be honest, without much effort.

“My dear, there’s one prophecy left,” says Aziraphale. “We still have work to do.”

“Stuff the prophecy,” Crowley says into Aziraphale’s chest. “Can’t get us if we just stay in bed.”

Aziraphale turns Crowley’s face up to his. “We’ll be all right,” he says, “together.”

He doesn’t really expect Crowley to be surprised, when he kisses him.

And yet.


End file.
